


I Do

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:45:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hates a lot of things about Anderson.</p><p>Rated G.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Do

I hate the whine in your voice. I hate the fact you're so particular about crime scenes. I hate when you let your beard grow out and get crisp crumbs in it like an idiot. I hate the way you insist on presents during "special occasions" because it's "the right thing to do". 

I hate how long you take primping in the bathroom (because it cuts into my own time primping). I hate the way I see you look at others sometimes because once a cheater always a cheater, and I should know that, and I do know that, but I still hate it. I'm glad I'm fairly secure in the knowledge no one could wow you like I can, that no one else could mesmerize you, corner you with just a series of deductions, give your eyes that wild, "Oh no!" look that I want to see in them. You're my prey, and I hate that I want you to be; that makes me yours in turn.

I hate your passive aggressive notes on every viable surface of the flat. I hate when you take it upon yourself to clean up _my_ experiments without asking me first. I hate how non-confrontational you can be while still managing to completely ruin weeks worth of scientific progress.

I hate the way you sneer at me when I try to impart just how important my experiments are. I hate how you bring up you're the only one who does the cleaning and you're not my housekeeper. The truth is, of the two of us, you are the housekeeper. I'm certainly not accustomed to it. If you'd have seen my first flat, you'd have probably turned up your large nose and never have asked me out in the first place.

I hate how bad you made me feel about the state of the flat when you returned from holiday. It was hard to be without you, don't you understand? I talked to the absence of you more than I should have. I found it hard to get out of bed, and you were gone less than a fortnight. I hate that you bring something to this flat that takes my notice, and I really hate that it takes my notice so fully.

I hate the pathetic curve of your brow and lips when you've not gotten your way, when I've hurt you. I hate the way your eyes shine, and I hate the way it's so easy to make you cry at the most inconvenient of times, and so hard to make you cry at the most convenient.

I hate finding your hair on my pillow. I hate when your overly large bottle of shampoo falls on my foot in the shower. I hate your cologne; it doesn't suit you and you don't understand why, even though I've explained. You wear it just to torment me. You smell better without it.

I hate when you hide my bow and I have to run round and find it when I really need the release of the music. I hate when you tell me what we're doing instead of asking, the way you expect me not to protest, the way you get upset when I do. I hate your ex-wife and those checks and the fact I can tell which old friends of yours you've slept with and which you've never had an interest in in the first place.

I hate your pies. You bake too well. I hate the smile on your face and the spring in your step when you bake pies to fatten me up, the way you dance around the kitchen and commandeer the radio. What if I wanted the radio? I do that, sometimes, listen to the radio. I do!

I hate when you tell me I'm not normal. I hate that I know the words, but they have an extra bite when they come from you.

I hate that you make me want to be more worthy of you one moment and make a brief thought of homicide flit through my mind in the next.

I hate that this is what love is. I've observed it, and I know. It's bits and pieces of two lives, two shapes, jammed together so that jagged edges rub together, causing earthquakes, causing some to come out victorious, some to melt down and away, and some edges to form new lands entirely.

I hate you. You're a lovely adversary, and an adversarial lover. I hate you, forever. I'd swear it in front of a priest, in front of a thousand witnesses. I'd kiss the hate into you, out of you. I'd change my name, change yours, just to go on hating you like I do right now.

That's intimacy, really. Layers of jagged edges trying to compromise, with annoyances sandwiched between.

Hate you? I do. Til death do us part.


End file.
